


Inn the Mood

by Leviosally468



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: ...okay maybe a teenie bit of plot, Author Is Sleep Deprived, Clothed Sex, Coming In Pants, Exhibitionism, Friends to Lovers, Frottage, Hand Jobs, I Don't Even Know, Idiots in Love, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Public Sex, Sort of..., but also they're just fuckin' horny
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-20
Updated: 2020-06-20
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:48:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24825568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leviosally468/pseuds/Leviosally468
Summary: Just our two favorite boys, lusting after each other...a little publicly...
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 20
Kudos: 196





	Inn the Mood

**Author's Note:**

  * For [valdomarx (cptxrogers)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cptxrogers/gifts), [chaos_monkey](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chaos_monkey/gifts).



> Okay, so I went to work on one of my WIPs but instead my sleep-deprived brain spat this out instead...been reading ~~too much~~ smut.  
> TBH, I haven't written a lot of PWP, so go easy. I'm dedicating it to two of my favorite writers and Jedi Masters of geraskier smut fic.

Geralt hides a smile in his tankard, eyes full of the clear, endless blue gaze that effectively immobilizes him where he sits. It had become an increasingly common habit of Jaskier’s to lock eyes with him like this from where he stood on the edge of the small raised stage at the head of the tavern, detailing the finer points of Geralt’s recent encounter with a rather murderous Cecaelia. Whereas before, if Geralt were to catch his eye mid-song, he would look away pointedly as though suddenly embarrassed. Now, his eyes unabashedly hold Geralt captive with a ritualistic frequency, as though trying to convey some hidden meaning in between the words. 

Geralt, in spite of himself, had begun to rather enjoy this private attention…to look _forward_ to it. He had always enjoyed Jaskier’s singing, even though he was often neglectful in voicing his appreciations. Since their re-unition, his once often times mocking reticence had somehow morphed into fascination and he wasn’t quite sure what to do with that, only that he now drew a strange, self-indulgent pleasure from watching Jaskier, from watching his _body_. 

There was something truly mesmerizing about the way he moved, as though every muscle had a purpose; enchanting the room with eyes of liquid sapphire, willowy hips swaying in time to the rhythm and lithe slender fingers fluttering delicately over the strings. His bright tenor voice seems to penetrate Geralt’s very bones, drowning out the overwhelming cacophony of noise that often threatens to drive him into madness. There was something grounding…soothing… _wistful_ even about Jaskier’s voice. 

Geralt finds himself continuing to stare avidly at his lips though the bard had long since looked away, utterly entranced by the soft, pink pout of them, curving into a line of ‘Oohs’ as Jaskier croons on. For what is hardly the first time, Geralt’s headspace is invaded with the delicious speculation that Jaskier’s mouth is a thing of great dexterity and Geralt indulges himself on what those soft lips would feel like, rounded around the head of his cock. He imagines how Jaskier’s strong, skilled fingers would feel if allowed to do as they pleased, free of the confines of what was considered merely ‘platonic’. He wonders if Jaskier is as vocal under more licentious circumstances and he swallows hard, biting back a growl as Jaskier tosses his sweat moistened bangs off of his forehead and a wave of applause accompanies his dramatic bow. Geralt squeezes his thighs together, willing his blood cells _anywhere_ else as the bard saunters over, sliding in next to him. 

A fresh wave of lavender and brandywine and something that is purely Jaskier assaults Geralt’s nostrils, making his head spin and wreaking havoc on the situation in his pants. Perhaps the ale is finally going to his head, perhaps it had simply been too long since he had anyone but he feels a twist of guilt squirm behind his navel in thinking about Jaskier this way. So what if he practically stripped Geralt down with his eyes when he sang? It didn’t mean he was interested in the literal sense. Though Jaskier might be indiscriminate in his preferences, there was little evidence beyond an occasional lingering touch or sarcastic innuendo that Jaskier had any desire for Geralt in _that_ way.  


Which is why he was totally prepared for Jaskier’s leg to nudge up against his own, the bard puffing out a happy sigh as he draws deeply from the goblet offered him by a passing serving girl. Geralt shuffles a bit nervously and he sidles further into the booth, mourning the loss of the touch as he creates a bit of space between them, but it’s only the proper thing to do. It makes the contradiction of Jaskier following his movements all the more surprising, and the delightfully insistent press of his warm thigh against Geralt’s almost gives the witcher pause.  
  
“So? How did I do?” Jaskier preens, and Geralt tries to dredge up some line of thought that doesn’t have to do with Jaskier’s hip bumped up against his own.  
  
“…Might’ve set a new record for tall tales…” Geralt grumbles out; it’s not his best retort by a mile, but the inexorable heat in his groin is in it for the long haul, so he buries his face in his ale again as Jaskier’s eyes narrow, pursing his mind-fuckingly perfect lips and granting Geralt a strong desire to suck them between his teeth. He can feel Jaskier fidget next to him, scent spiking with something… _lusty_ … it curls playfully within the sultry haze of lavender that waves off of him, and Geralt suddenly feels drunker now than he has on any ale.  


“I suppose I should be _thankful_ to have scored more than five words from you, witcher…” Jaskier says resignedly, taking another drink and giving Geralt a sidelong glance from under long, lush lashes. Suddenly Jaskier turns bodily to face Geralt, fixing him with a coy grin;  
  
“You seem very edgy tonight Geralt…and for such an attentive patron, I find it difficult to believe you haven’t even a teensy, _weensie_ speck of praise to offer…there must be something to your liking…” Jaskier’s fingers settle on his forearm and his furrowed gaze follows the motion. It would be so easy to make his usual excuses and duck out; to continue the feeble pretense that Jaskier hasn't irrevocably become the object of his every fantasy. It would likely involve him having to crawl into Jaskier's lap to escape, which was guaranteed to add fuel to the fire burning in his groin, and he didn't entirely trust himself to make it out of the booth.  
Geralt felt his cock give a twitch into the leg of his breeches and his breath hitch in his throat. _‘Like it all…like your singing…like your body…like _you_ …like to _fuck_ —’_ Geralt’s brain provided in his head and he clamped his teeth shut against the onslaught.  
  
“Tell you what…” Jaskier chortled, “Five words or less… _something_ you liked…”  


  
If Geralt had known that he was destined to die by internal combustion, he may have done things a bit differently in life. Then, there are words on his lips before he can stop them;  
  
“No words…can show you…” His voice is husky and lust-soaked and the dilemma between his legs is quickly spiraling out of control. He can feel Jaskier’s eyes on him, but he doesn’t dare look up, because he knows that Jaskier has the ability to read him like a book, and he is suddenly terrified of what the bard will find. As if in answer to a silent prayer, Jaskier’s hand moves under the shroud of darkness beneath the table and settles on his thigh, just above the knee and _squeezes_. 

Geralt’s muscles twitch under the heat of his fingers and low growl vibrates in his chest. He raises his eyes just enough to flicker into the periphery of space around their table as Jaskier’s hand begins to glide upwards, but the chaos of the noisy inn continues uninterrupted around them. And then Jaskier is leaning into him and the whisper of his lips against Geralt’s ear nearly drives him out of his skin.  
  
“…So _show_ me then…” The words slither down Geralt’s neck and under his collar sending shivers over his arms and he leans into Jaskier, chasing the feeling of his lips. It’s as clear an invitation as any and Geralt feels any lingering misgivings shatter like glass as his hand settles over Jaskier’s which is listing dangerously close to his desperately hard cock and with a swift motion he shoves his palm needily into the hot length threatening to rip through the inseam of his breeches. 

Jaskier’s breath catches in his throat as he strokes the length of Geralt’s dick with languid fingers. Geralt bites into his lower lip as his head tips back into the wall and his hips jerk into Jaskier’s hand. He feels Jaskier’s hip slide into him, feels his leg nudge up under his knee so that Geralt’s thigh is looped over Jaskier’s, spreading him wider and he groans as Jaskier leans over into the crook of his neck and nips the skin there. 

Geralt spares a half-glance around the inn once more, utterly shocked that no one has so much as looked in their direction. He finds Jaskier’s eyes, heavily lidded and pupils blown wide in the lowlight, his parted lips curled in a filthy grin. Slowly, Geralt slides his hand between Jaskier’s legs and almost comes on the spot as Jaskier’s own hard-on practically jumps into his fingers. His ears prick as a breathy whine slithers from Jaskier’s lips, and Geralt is suddenly overwhelmed with the desire to pull as many of these noises as possible from him until he remembers they’re sitting rather suggestively draped, fucking into one another’s hands in a crowded inn. Geralt feels a spur of perverse pleasure at the sheer recklessness of it all, at the thrill that any moment now, someone might look up and see exactly what was going on their dark, tawdry corner…like the bar maid coming over with a tray of refills. 

Geralt’s eyes snap to as she approaches. The tabletop effectively hides the majority of what is taking place below and the dim light of the inn more or less blurs out the rest, but Geralt isn’t sure this is quite the kind of publicity he wants. He makes a collective effort to disentangle himself from Jaskier’s legs and remove his hand but finds his movements utterly stilled as Jaskier shows no such urgency, his unoccupied hand flitting to Geralt’s, pinning it in place over his cock as the serving girl draws ever closer.  
  
“Jaskier…” Geralt croaks out, blinking black spots out of his vision as a hot bubble of impending release builds in his gut. The bard’s face breaks into a shit-eating grin and Geralt smothers a throaty _moan_ into the knuckles of the hand not being held hostage against Jaskier’s cock as the bar maid bustles up to their table.  
  
“Here ya go, lads…compliments o’ yer fans, master bard…” She smiles, utterly oblivious to the torrent of activity beneath the table, and plunks the drinks down. Geralt bites into the back of his hand, turning his head to the wall as Jaskier beams back at her, simultaneously squeezing Geralt’s cock with a jerk.  
  
“Yer friend looks a little ill…” the maid says warily, furrowing her brow at Geralt and Jaskier’s smile widens.  
“Oh don’t mind him…just a little… _overwhelmed_ at the moment…my performance has moved him practically to tears it would seem…” He spoke with the air of one discussing the weather as he gave Geralt’s dick another hearty tug and Geralt thought his head might explode if his cock didn’t first he was so fucking close. The maid raised her eyebrow at him and said nothing more as she turned and strode away.  
  
Geralt barely manages to turn bonelessly back to Jaskier, twisting his free hand into the front of his doublet as Jaskier’s hand finds friction on him with a renewed vigor and he leans in to growl in his ear;  
  
“Fuck you, you little _shit_ …” he groans out, but the feel of Jaskier’s length rutting into his hand steals away any heat the words may have had.  
  
“… _fuck_...Jaskier…. m’ _close_ …” Geralt doesn’t even try to bury the thirst that drenches his voice as Jaskier’s hands hone in on the head of his cock and he helplessly clamps his thighs together.  
  
“That’s right…be good for me now…” Jaskier murmurs, and the words stoke the tension building inside him into a fever pitch.  
He fights to remain conscious as come spurts down the leg of his breeches, shoulders quaking uncontrollably as he bites down into the fabric of Jaskier’s collar. He can feel the evidence of Jaskier’s own release bleeding through his trousers and over his fingers; can feel the panting of his breath as he smothers his face into Geralt’s neck with a whimper, grinding through waves of orgasm.  
  
Presently, Jaskier’s heavy breathing subsides into a broken chuckle as he sits up, jerking his doublet straight. Geralt sucks air heavily through his nose, willing the feeling back into his limbs as he leans back once more, a grin breaking onto his face in spite of himself.  
  
“I’m glad you enjoyed my performance, Geralt.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Come yell at me on Tumblr under the same pseud


End file.
